I never believed in ghosts or deities, but my soul drifted uncontrollably to one place.

The concert had ended abruptly due to the sudden stampede.

I saw Brenda. She looked panic-stricken, pulling out a box of mixed paint from her bag to smear it on her clothes and hands.

She then waved down a taxi, jumped in, and headed to the same place I was drifting towards.

When I floated back home, Brenda was already sprawled on the couch, excitedly playing on her phone.

Without looking up, she shouted, "Mom, clean my shoes and wash my clothes. They're covered in paint."

Our mother replied, "Sure, dear. You've had a tough day. I've made you some chicken soup. It'll be ready soon."

She stirred the chicken soup in the pot with a ladle, smiling as she poured a bowl and set it under the fan to cool.

I floated behind Brenda and saw her editing the concert video, preparing to post it on social media.

Our dad cut a whole plate of peeled watermelon, stuck a small fork in it, and placed it on the coffee table, feeding her a bite with affection.

Our mom looked at the pile of shoes, bags, and dirty clothes Brenda had thrown around.

She sulked, "Where is that useless Rose? She didn't come home for dinner, and now that Brenda is back from painting, she's still out messing around. She doesn't care about how hard we work. That ungrateful girl should just stay out there and never come back."

My dad got up and threw the dirty clothes into the basket.

"If she stays out there, it's less worry for us. But who will do the laundry and cooking then? Luckily, we have another daughter. Brenda, when you grow up and become a famous painter, hire a maid for your mom. Then your mom won't have to see your sister's face every day. Isn't that right, Brenda?"

Hearing my parents' words, even as a soul, I couldn't help but feel a chill.

In this house, I was just a servant at their beck and call.

Even a servant got paid. I wasn't even that lucky.

And now, as they wished, the daughter they despised was truly dead out there, never to return or annoy them again.

Brenda kept her head down, fiddling with her phone, blocking six posts from the concert my parents had sent.

She took a moment to comfort them, saying, "Don't worry. I'll buy you a big villa and a luxury car, and I'll hire eight maids for you two."

Our parents couldn't stop smiling.

After the chicken soup cooled down, our mother handed it to Brenda.

She said, "Drink up, Brenda. Don't let your sister see. She's so greedy she'd eat a whole chicken. And your dad picked out the sweetest watermelon for you. Don't leave any for your sister."

Our dad swallowed as he watched the chicken soup. Brenda finished the bowl in one gulp, ate a couple of pieces of watermelon, and nodded eagerly.

I could only smile bitterly.

The next day was Sunday. Our mom got up in the morning and saw the laundry basket was still full. Her expression darkened immediately.

She grabbed the clothes rack and kicked open my bedroom door.

The so-called bedroom was a tiny storeroom, just big enough for a single bed.

I used to have a bedroom, but it became Brenda's art studio later.

Seeing the room empty, my mother was furious.

She barked, "That damn girl, staying out all night. When she comes back, I'll break her legs."

She threw the clothes rack down and called me.

Of course, she couldn't reach me.

She cursed and then, with my dad who had just woken up, cursed at me again.

They only stopped when the noise woke Brenda. She angrily snapped at them.

Brenda said, "I'm hungry," and they scrambled to make her breakfast.

I felt a bit of relief, finally free from preparing different breakfasts for them.

At the table, there were two bottles of milk. One was for Brenda to drink, and the other was for her to wash her hands.

"Thanks, Mom. I haven't had your breakfast for so long. Yours is the best," Brenda cooed.

Our parents were delighted.

Brenda was always the beautiful, cute, and talented one. She was the pride of the family.

No matter how hard I tried, like representing the school at a physics competition and having the potential to be admitted by a top school, I was just a bookworm to them.

They wouldn't give me money for the competition, so I had to earn it myself.

In my last life, I made some money working at a concert, but Brenda died in a stampede.

In the end, I missed the competition.

On the eve of the college entrance exam, they forbade me from going.

They blamed me for not saving Brenda and saying I didn't deserve to go to college or live a good life.

I explained to them that I didn't know Brenda had sneaked into the concert and that I would have saved her if I'd known.

They wouldn't listen and made me apologize to Brenda's body.

After breakfast, our mom urged our dad to do the dishes and grumbled about the dirty clothes before lounging on the sofa with her phone.

The news about the concert stampede was all over social media.

She shook her head as she watched.

"Look at these young people, wasting their time on concerts. Tickets cost almost ten thousand dollars. Your dad and I can't even afford the cheapest one. Crazy. Why don't they rob a bank instead?

"Brenda, don't be like these idiots. None of them amount to anything," she said.

Brenda's face twitched with anger.

"Well, now things are messed up, right? People have died, right? Brainless fans are trash and poison for society," our mom added.

Brenda shot up from her seat.

She grumbled, "Mom, why are you so mean? Can't you be a bit kinder?"

She then stormed back to her room, leaving our mom puzzled.

To support her favorite star, she argued with our mother.

It seemed she didn't remember at all that I stayed in the pit to save her and might have become the so-called "trash and poison" our mother mentioned.

Our mom received a call from the police, asking them to come and claim my body.

My parents were stunned.

My mom still angry from Brenda's outburst, snapped.

"Is this some actor Rose hired? Playing tricks now? What a sick joke! Tell her to get back here and wash the dirty clothes."

I didn't hire anyone. I was really dead.

If they knew I died trying to save their dear daughter, would they feel even a little guilty or regretful?